


The Barn

by odalibuc



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, I am a terrible person, Implied Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odalibuc/pseuds/odalibuc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg has finally managed to pick up the pieces in the aftermath. Now he has to put them somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Barn

Once, a very long time ago, the barn still looked like a barn. The walls were red, the roof was sturdy, and a wooden floor supported animals, tractors, and the people that cared for them. Some time ago, even though the farm was gone, the barn was still full. Junk piled high on the ground and in the loft and could be easily shifted aside for access to the other junk piles behind it. Greg had been adding to the clutter his whole life; this trip shouldn’t be this hard.

The barn seemed quiet now, much more silent than he was used to. As a man of music, he was always making noise; humming new songs to himself and figuring out chords and harmonies. He walked slowly past what had been the contents of his van, flicking the lights on overhead. With a pop, one of them exploded. Greg didn’t even notice. The sun was high overhead, and without any overhead windows, most of the barn was cast in shadow thanks to one of his last light bulbs burning out. He rearranged the precariously perched stack closest to the door, moving everything there deeper into the barn, making room. Then he moved on and did the same with the next pile over.

A few hours later, he was ready to bring the first of many trips from the van to the barn to add to his hoard. Well, he wasn’t exactly ready, but at least now there was room for what he was about to stack inside the barn. He started with the mattress tied to the roof of his van, heaving it in by himself and dropping it on the old wood floor with a muted “thump.” Then, he piled bedsheets and pillows on top of the mattress, too new to need throwing away, many of them decorated with stars. Next he began bringing in boxes of clothes he had never worn. He stacked them in the corner, next to what used to be a bed. The last few boxes were lighter than the clothes. One box contained action figures, another old game systems. A third contained some DVDs and a few folded posters for a tv show or two. Last to be added to the pile was a broken ukulele. It had obviously been well-loved and often played, and from the scuffs on the body and damaged fretboard, it had been carried into a few situations that a musical instrument probably shouldn’t have been brought into. Despite the damage, it had been well-cared for by its previous owner. Now though, it was unplayable. One of the tuning pegs had melted, and the fretboard had cracked entirely down the middle. The body was in four different pieces, splintered like someone fell on it. Greg placed all the pieces together as best as he could to make the shape of the ukulele, but it was difficult; the pink flower on the front had been scorched off.

His labor complete, Greg stood back and looked at his most recent mess. It was far more organized than the rest of the barn, the newest editions obvious by their lack of dust and the obvious care that went into placing them. Before leaving, Greg walked over to the mattress and sat down, collecting his thoughts. It was difficult, with all the silence. He was surprised by the sheet weight of the quiet that was crushing him. If the wind would only blow and moan through the old building like it should, the quiet would go away. If the birds and squirrels hadn’t stopped making their infernal racket, the silence would break and he would be free from its oppressive stillness. But then a breeze came through and stirred the birds in the trees and set the old barn creaking, and Greg noticed another kind of silence replace it. It was in the stillness of the things around him, things that would never again be used. The broken ukulele and its feeling of finality, its sudden loss of sound, added a second kind of silence to the barn. This new silence was aching and lonely and sad, and it followed Greg out of the barn, into a world that was suddenly much too empty.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry. I had to write something for my creative writing class that involved descriptions of a scene inside a barn from the point of view of a character whose son had been killed in war. I started describing a barn and then I thought of Gregs and well, things just kind of happened. Oops? This is my first attempted angst that doesn't involve an angsty au, so please let me know how I did and what I need to work on.


End file.
